The following is shorter than any of my previous stories, except three, but it seems to me long enough. LESSONS by C. Lakewood It was a fine, sunny day in early March. Winter's grip had loosened, and soon enough there'd be gentle rains, warm breezes, and greenery. Eventually, the spring semester would be over. But Sasha Cooper was conflicted. Oh, spring could be charming in its way -- the scenery and the weather -- but, to her, the end of the school year signaled not a re-birth, but a three-month stagnation, until the autumn brought forth its promise once again. She sighed and gazed dreamily out the window of her university classroom, her mind drifting back nearly fifteen years, remembering her pivotal senior year in high school -- and her English teacher, Julia Windom.... ****************************** She and Ms. Windom met almost every day after school in the teacher's stylish apartment, where Sasha received special instruction in advanced composition. At first it was only that, and she wrote sitting at a salvaged student desk in her school uniform. But, within a few sessions, she was working at the desk naked, while Ms. Windom stalked back and forth, making editorial comments and punctuating them by swishing a punishment cane through the air -- or occasionally even caressing the girl's bare body here and there with the cane. By the end of each "tutorial," Sasha would be sitting stiffly erect, her shoulders well back (presenting her prominent nipples) and her knees spread widely apart (exposing her eager, wet cunt). These sessions were themselves exciting to Sasha -- indeed, as exciting as the writing assignments she was being given. And, in this way, with Ms. Windom as her mentor, Sasha became a pornographer. Not at first, of course. In the beginning, she wrote simple, over-heated, teen-age romances, but, gradually, as she lost her clothing privileges piece by piece (punishment for errors in grammar and style -- and for some things as trivial as poor penmanship), the topics became increasingly salacious. When she had no more clothing to lose, she was caned for her mistakes. These were not proper canings, however, or she could never have tolerated so many, so often. They were relatively mild and were intended more to humiliate than to inflict pain. (Sasha later looked back on them with nostalgia.) By New Year's, Sasha was completely obsessed with the experience. Partly from a desire to please her mentor and partly from sheer pride in her craftsmanship, she was constantly fantasizing all sorts of perverted scenarios that she could later spin into compelling stories. As a result, she became an accomplished writer...and her teacher was certainly well pleased in the process. The lessons continued during the second semester, and Ms. Windom always spent some of their time together masturbating (gently, in order to prolong it), and Sasha, correspondingly, came to relish the smell of hot cunt...her teacher's and her own. During the last few weeks before summer vacation, she also learned what Ms. Windom TASTED like. Each day, after her caning, she spent half an hour with her head under her teacher's skirt, learning how to lick cunt.... ****************************** Then the bell rang, bringing Sasha back to the present and calling her freshman English class to order. She had the homework passed to the front, collected, and placed on her desk. "Now, open your books to page 346, read Browning's 'Andrea del Sarto....'" Cute little Louise Bittner murmured, in an undertone just loud enough for the teacher to hear (as bright students have been doing since perhaps the days of Socrates), "The faultless painter...." Sasha fixed her with a penetrating look and said, "CALLED. The line is: 'Called the Faultless Painter.'" Louise blushed at the reproof and wriggled at the attention. "Anyway, class, read it and take a few minutes to think about it. Then we'll discuss it." She smiled inwardly. "They just might have a random thought or two about that poem," she said to herself. "Maybe I should have assigned part of 'Paracelsus' and really screwed them over." Her mood shifted. "Most of them nowadays -- witlings or oafs -- don't belong in college." She sighed. "But there's always a few...." As she was squaring up the blue books, she spied what appeared at first to be the corner of a loose page. It turned out to be a sheet of notebook paper, written on both sides, folded once, and sloppily inserted between two blue books. It was pornographic, of course. And she was the central character. The handwriting was, to her practiced eye, unmistakable. "Melanie Martin, please see me after class," she said crisply. ****************************** Some minutes later, she looked up. "Okay, class...I think you've all had enough time. Let's get to it. First, you should know that Andrea del Sarto was a Florentine who lived...um...from 1486 to 1530, and he was indeed an exceptionally fine painter. In Browning's poem, he is talking to his beautiful and treacherous wife -- for whom he beggered his parents and stole money from the King of France.... And, all the while, she was unfaithful to him, of course." She grimaced. "In any case, about three quarters of the way down the second column, there's a famous line and a half: 'Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, Or what's a heaven for?' "What do you suppose Browning was trying to tell us here...?" ****************************** The bell rang at last, bringing to an end a rather desultory class discussion. Virtually all the (so-called) "students" left noisily and immediately without looking back. Louise Bittner and a couple of other grinds lingered a moment, but not long, for it was clear that Miss Cooper had some serious business to talk over with Melanie Martin. Louise was not displeased. Melanie advanced, diffidently it seemed, up to the front of the room and stood quietly in front of Sasha's desk. She was a tall redhead, well-built but quiet and rather bookish. At present, she wore an unreadable expression. Sasha took Exhibit A, the sheet of notebook paper, from her lap drawer and smoothed it out on the desk-top so the girl could get a good look at it. "Recognize this?" Melanie nodded. "Yes, Miss Cooper." "Yes, I thought you might. It's completely indefensible, of course." "Miss Cooper...." "No excuses. Besides two homophone errors, the paragraphing is inconsistent, the conversations stilted, the imagery lackluster, the characters two-dimensional, and the plot development dull and hackneyed. It simply MUST be thoroughly re-written. Tutorial today at 3:45." She waved her hand. "Dismissed." Wordlessly, Melanie scurried from the classroom. Sasha was so looking forward to the end of the day that she was already salivating. ****************************** Alone at last in her house, Sasha glanced nervously at the elderly schoolroom clock on the wall. It was 3:38, and Melanie Martin would be arriving soon, for she was always punctual. The cane was ready, and the writing materials -- pen and paper -- and that wretched story, ripe for a re-write. Sasha was seated naked at a salvaged student desk, her nipples already stiff and her cunt already drooling onto the wooden seat of her little desk. Then she heard the front door open, and she shivered, knowing that Ms. Martin had arrived and that her latest tutorial was about to begin....